The Corpseman
by Hydriatus
Summary: He didn't know where he was. But he had faith that He had sent him there for a reason.
1. Issue 01: The Soldier

**Issue 01  
**

* * *

_The Soldier  
_

* * *

He marched through the wilderness in silence. He had no name, or at least one that would be recognized as such. His heavy coat was caked in dust, as his boots were clad in dried mud. The sun was beaming far overhead, visible through the gaps in the canopy, a brilliant yellow eye in the blue face that was the sky, unmarred by clouds.

He was dead.

But still he marched, his weapon shouldered as he vaulted over a fallen log. Everything was so…green. It was alien to him as anything else since had left his home world. It reminded him of the stories the chaplains had told to him and his kin when they had been but children. Stories of great fields and wondrous forests full of animals. Stories of a world long since burned to ash by atomic fire. Now it was a world of rain and dust, of duty and conviction. Some had called it nightmarish. Maybe it was. But to him, it was and always would be home. One he would never see again. He felt no sorrow. He was dead, as was right. They were all born to die in His name. That was their duty. To die so that they may be forgiven.

And even in death, he would serve. But he did not know how. So he did what all of them had been trained to do, on the blasted rad-plains of home. He marched on. Twigs and leaves crunched beneath his boots as he moved, his gaze fixed forward. He had been walking for a long time, or so he assumed. His chronometer had been broken before he had died, and it was as dead as he was in this strange place. Was this…home? Home before the war? Had he been granted the honour of seeing the simply beauty of his distant home world by Him on Earth?

He did not know. So he did what he had always done. He marched. Soon the light began to fade, but still he marched on. When in doubt, advance. And he was filled with doubt at that moment, though none showed on his face. The impassive lenses stared fixedly forward before he slowed as the forest before him suddenly cut in twain. He stared before turning to look one way, then the other. It was a road. Pitifully small, but probably enough for civilian use. It wasn't a dirt track either. He stared at it for a while, somewhat puzzled.

A road. He stood there, amongst the trees, looking at it. Then he heard it. The guttural low growl of an engine. He slowly turned his head until he saw it, coming down the road from what he assumed to be the east. It was a truck, small and flimsy. Faint music could be heard above the sounds of the engine, the growl turning into a throaty roar. He just stood and stared as the vehicle sped by. It reminded him of the haphazard engines the Directorate had used to harass their lines, though this one lacked a weapon on the flatbed.

It sped by on the road and continued heading west. He watched it go before looking back east. There was no sign of anything else coming. But he had found something of interest. Others. He turned back to face the way the vehicle had gone and began to walk along the treeline, heading west.

* * *

Night had fallen by the time he spied the lights of a settlement. A small collection of buildings, very much like the villages the regiment had marched through only three days before. Before he had died. That one had been a scorched and blasted ruin. This one however, was still alive. He walked in silence as he approached, his dark trench coat blending him into the night. He stopped short of the dim light that came from the settlement, staring at it. It…was at peace. There was no curfew from what he could see. There was no blackout. A small buzz of noise pervaded the air, a multitude of sounds blending together within the town. It was…oddly comforting. It reminded him of the various regimental camps that had been setup during the muster. His regiment had been as silent as stoic as ever, but the Cadians and Catachans had been quite vocal in their pleasure at having survived another campaign, singing and drinking. They had mingled freely with the other regiments stationed alongside theirs.

No one from his regiment had taken part.

He stood and stared in the dark for a long time, the lights of the town slowly fading as the night moved on. He did not know what to do. He was the highest ranking member of the Korps present, so command was his. And he had no idea what to do. His head lowered as he pondered his options. What had the Watchmasters always made sure of whenever they were deployed?

Resources. Food, water, filters. All consumable goods. His own supplies wouldn't last. He did not know if he could starve to death after dying, but then what was certain about death? Maybe this was the final test from Him. After a lifetime of war, what could he do when confronted with peace? Or maybe it was all an illusion, a trap laid out to ensnare his soul at the last moment? He didn't know. So he would continue as he always did. He raised his head and resumed walking.

Soon, he was walking amidst the dim pools of light cast by streetlamps. Now and again he would come across a crossing with signs. He would raise his head to study them. Though written in a script similar to gothic, the letters did not form any familiar words. He could make out what appeared to be distances however. It seems the numerical system was at least the same. It wasn't much, but it was another comforting reminder of home. The buildings around him were mostly homes, or so he assumed. They were of human design, and that comforted him further. There was no one outside to challenge him as he travelled deeper into the town, the homes being replaced by what could only be buildings of commerce and administration. Blocky, solid shapes lined the streets, all dark and empty.

He let his gaze wander from one to the next. No signs of damage. The town was at peace. Voices reached his ears and he looked ahead, noticing a bright set of lights. When in doubt, advance. He walked onwards. The lights resolved themselves to be advertisements at some facility. The vehicle he had seen earlier was parked by what he assumed to be a refuelling station. The emblems of fire hazards bedecking the various pumps and stations reminded him of the runes and sigils the Mechanicus had used at the promethium refinery they had set up to keep the armoured regiments supplied with fuel.

He suspected that if he were to smell the air, it would carry the same reek of the substance. But all he could taste was the recycled air being pumped through his face. Strangely, the refinery had great windows, displaying bright colours within. He walked closer curious, ignoring the empty vehicle parked outside. More details became visible. A counter. A young woman behind it. Two men, owners of the vehicle he guessed, wandering around looking at the wares. A shop then.

He had never shopped himself. Everything he had required had been provided by Him on Earth and the Munitorium. Surely if he were dead He would continue to provide what was necessary? The thought was immediately crushed. Such thinking led to arrogance, led to jeopardy. Do not ask what the Emperor can do for you; rather ask what you can do for Him. But he was aware of the practice of shopping, having witnessed the soldiers from other regiments partaking in it. He had always been content to remain in camp unless ordered otherwise himself, during which times the watchmaster had overseen their patrols into whatever nearby settlements there were.

Whereas the other soldiers were welcomed and cheered, the Korps were feared and avoided. That was the way of things. They were already dead after all, and the living should not associate with the dead. He looked as the two men approached the counter, with all the confidence that the youths of other worlds so commonly displayed. There was no confidence where he had come from. Only certainty.

They were talking. About what, he did not know. Maybe haggling over prices, or inquiring after certain items. And then one of the men pulled a gun. It was a small thing, reminding him of an autopistol. A projectile weapon. He was waving it at the woman, who was clearly nervous, frozen in panic. Typical civilian. So he had come across a crime. An affront to the Emperor. Humanity had enough foes that it could ill afford to turn on one another. A pity that even death did not seem to change that, though in his heart he was beginning to doubt that fact.

His lasgun was in his hands, raised and ready at eyelevel as he sighted the weapon down its length. He slowed his breathing as he had been taught. Normally, the korps partook in massed volley fire, though snipers also had their part to play in the sieges. The ability to pick of one man amongst hundreds was a wonderful psychological tool. It reminded the enemy that no one was safe. A breeze pulled at his coat as he squeezed the trigger, and a beam of red light shot out, melting a hole through the glass window before going on to hit the man in the shoulder. His clothing smouldered and his flesh sizzled as skin and muscle was cooked. His faint words turned into all too audible screams of pain as another beam of crimson light hit his compatriot in the chest, the youth turning to see what had happened.

They were both on the ground as he entered the refinery store. He assumed they were shouting obscenities, but the words eluded him. The sounds were right but their inflection, their order, was wrong. But there were similarities with gothic that he could detect. The soldier silenced the two men with another two shots, one to each of their heads. The woman behind the counter was cowering against the far wall, arms raised over her head. He shouldered his weapon as he spoke.

"You are safe now." The usual response that had been drilled into him since he could wield a weapon. Reassurance of civilians was not one of the Korps' strong points, but even they recognised the benefits it brought about. The woman did not respond so he repeated himself in High Gothic, and then in the native dialect of his home world. She seemed to recognise that, but not understand the words, looking at him fearfully. Fear was nothing new to him. The Korps were meant to inspire fear.

He stood there for a moment, unsure how to proceed. He eventually settled on making the sign of the aquila before turning away. He paused only long enough to pick up a pair of bottles of water and two tins of food, placing them in his bag before nodding at the woman and departing. It seemed like a fair exchange to him.

* * *

"Oh this is just wonderful," groaned Agent Roberts, rubbing his eyes. It was far too early in the afternoon to be dealing with something like this. He could swear he felt a headache coming on. He had received the call to investigate only ten hours ago, at two in the morning no less. It had taken him most of that time to get here, some backwater little town in the middle of nowhere.

And since he had got here, things just got worse and worse. Firstly, there was the briefing he received over the phone in his car. A disturbance that warranted further study. Something so vague as to be practically useless in informing him what he was actually supposed to do. The day only got worse once he actually arrived at the location indicated on his GPS, some small gas station near the town centre. Local law enforcement had shut the place down, though he easily gained entry thanks to his status as a SHIELD agent.

SHIELD, or to give it its full name, the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, was the espionage and law-enforcement organisation that dealt with a variety of issues. However, a vast majority of those issues tended to stem from supers. The world had changed. No longer were terrorists with top secret weapons SHIELDs top priority. Now it was the whole slew of superbeings that had filled the world. Mutants, aliens, gods, magicians, irresponsible genius', the list was long and varied. Roberts couldn't help but sigh somewhat as he pondered where this little investigation would lead.

There hadn't been much for him to see, so he had caught one of the local cops and had him describe exactly what they had found. A pair of bodies, with sever localised burns. A traumatised cashier. Two holes melted in the window. And of course, surveillance footage that showed exactly what had happened. Roberts had watched it in silence in the backroom of the gas station. A pair of cocky young punks rolled into town and thought to try their hand at robbery. Only to get shot by lasers for their trouble.

Though his expression remained stoic, inwardly Roberts grimaced. A vigilante with laser weaponry. How fun. And not a bad shot either, going by the distances and the behaviour of the shooter. Then the figure revealed itself by entering the store and Robert's day got infinitely worse. Dark trench coat. Gas mask. Germanic helm. And a golden eagle emblazoned on one shoulder pad. He recognized the imagery. German. World War era. Add laser weapon to that and you got one very unpleasant result.

Showing none of the discomfort he felt, he just nodded at the policemen as he emerged from the gas station. He got into his car and let out a heavy breath as he dialled a number. "This is Roberts. I'm going to need a seeker squad. We have potential HYDRA presence."

* * *

The water was rich and full of flavour. Completely unlike anything he was used to. Then again, he usually drank decontaminated water whilst on campaign. He had never tried the water the civilians had access to. Civilians had other drinks as well, some that the guards had taken to with great relish. Mostly they tended to be alcoholic to some degree.

He was sat in the shadow of a great tree, resting. He had chosen against starting a fire, unwilling to draw any local predators to himself. But he had come across no trace of anything in the forests that could harm him. Mostly just small herbivores. His face lay on the ground as he drank sparingly from the bottle, rationing himself. He poured some the liquid into his canteen before placing the drink back in his pack, fishing out one of the tins he had taken. Drawing his trench knife, he stabbed the lid and sawed through the thin metal to open the container. Some sort of sauce with seeds. He ate the cold food slowly, his eyes lost in his memories.

When in doubt, advance. That was the way of the imperial Guard. But he could not advance forever. And he was pretty sure he wasn't dead. He was lost. He was somewhere where he shouldn't be. He was apart from his regiment. He had to go back. It was his duty. Until he did, he was in command. How to achieve his objectives was down to him. He felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders like a mantle made of lead. He would bear it with the stoicness expected of the Korps.

Besides, his goal was clear. Find a way home. Failing that, do what was expected of all sons and daughters of Krieg. Die in the name of the Emperor. His meal finished, he put his face back on, the comforting feel of it settling on his face fortifying his resolve. He carved a rough aquila into the bark of the tree against which he had rested, and muttered a quick prayer to Him before settling in to rest, his lasgun cradled in his hands.

* * *

The sun was already setting by the time the team he had requested had turned up. One of those new patrol groups that Fury had set up. They basically wandered the world, ready to respond to any situation that came up. A solid idea, and one that Roberts was thankful for. Now he could hand this entire matter off onto someone else and not have to worry about getting his head blown off by some nutjob who probably still though World War 2 was going on.

They had arrived in a pair of black SUVs, probably equipped with some highly confusing gadgetry, and wanted his report. He was more than happy to give it to them. The team leader, a dour woman of what he supposed was Japanese descent, stood before him, arms folded as she listened.

"-so basically, we don't know who he is, where he's from, or what he wants," Roberts finished with an apologetic shrug. There wasn't much he could have achieved on his own.

"And what about the HYDRA connection?" she asked, and Roberts could swear he could hear the cogs in her brain turning as she put the various pieces of the puzzle together.

"Just a suspicion, not a fact," he pointed out. "He spoke German, and certainly looks like some of the regular HYDRA mooks the Captain had to face back in the day but…well, he seemed more like part of the Wehrmacht than HYDRA."

"Regular army?" the woman replied, eyebrow raised.

"Regular army if HYDRA had stayed loyal, perhaps," Roberts corrected himself with a shrug. "An attempt at replicating their successes?"

"Possible," she conceded, eyes narrowed. "Only way to be sure is to ask him ourselves. He's well educated though, I'll give him that."

"Huh? What makes you say that?" the other SHIELD agent asked, somewhat surprised by her sudden declaration.

"He spoke Latin."

"Oh, was that it was? What about that third language?"

"No idea. I'll be having my analyst check it though. Thank you for your assistance." And with that she nodded her head and turned back to her SUVs, leaving Roberts just standing there for a moment before he shook his head and shrugged. Well, none of this was his problem now.

* * *

"So what have we got?" asked Jules, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Bertha sat in the back seat, her laptop in her lap as she continued to cut apart the footage she had been sent, combing through all the data she could get her hands on.

"Some vigilante soldier with laser weaponry," Agent Natsumii replied, taking her seat in the front of the car and buckling her seatbelt. "Roberts suggested a HYDRA connection."

Jules raised an eyebrow at that. "A HYDRA vigilante?" he asked, his disbelief evident in his voice as he ignited the engine.

"No. The gear certainly looks like the stuff HYDRA had back during the Second World War though. Doesn't mean whoever is wearing it is part of the group," the woman continued, folding her arms across her chest as Jules pulled away from the station, the second SUV following them. "Could be someone found a cache and took it out for a whirl."

"Or we could be facing another popsicle," countered Jules, keeping his eyes on the road. That would be certainly unwelcome. It was surprising how many of HYDRA's staff had survived into the 21st century. Why wouldn't there be another one? "Possibly some form of sleeper agent with a delayed activation?"

"Can't rule that out. Bertha, got anything to add?"

"Apart from the language thing? Yeah, I think the little salute thing he did was weird so I ran a check for that. Nothing. Doesn't match any signals or codes that SHIELD knows of," the analyst offered. Then again, what SHIELD didn't know could fill a few databases. HYDRA was really good at playing the shadow game. "Guessing it's not military though."

"That's a bold claim," Natsumii commented, looking at the other woman through the rear view mirror. "Proof?"

"Uhm...well no military salute that I'm aware of takes both hands. Always figured it was kinda practical you know? Like, in case something happened during the act you could always still grab your weapon?"

Jules and Natsumii shared a look. "Interesting idea, but I doubt that's actually right. No jumping to conclusions, alright?" said the team leader.

"Yes ma'am," chorused Jules and Bertha.

"Good. Bertha, tap into any surveillance in the area, look for anything that could show where our soldier came from. If there's some kind of HYDRA bunker out here, I want to know where."

"And what about the soldier?"

"A potential HYDRA base is of greater concern. Send a report to the Triskelion that our lead headed south from here and that they should send a tracker. He must be off the radar if we haven't come across him before," Natsumii ordered, eyes fixed forward on the road as they drove on into the night.

"Yes ma'am."

* * *

He had been walking for days. He had managed to hunt down some of the local wildlife for food, though each kill had cost him precious ammunition. He was going to have to replenish his stocks soon. But he had stuck to the road, and had soon encountered a highway. He never actually stepped onto the tarmac itself, always keeping a fair distance from it, cutting through forest and fields, but always keeping it in sight.

It was his guide. It would lead him. To where? He did not know. He just had faith that wherever it was, it was where the Emperor needed him to be. So he walked on, though the roads he followed steadily became busier and busier. He was heading towards some sort of hub or nexus. A larger centre of population. Good. It would be easier to make contact with some sort of authority that way. A faint suspicion had been building in his mind, one he wasn't quite ready to face yet.

But he had settled on a course of action. Find some kind of authority, and try to chart passage off world. If that proved impossible...well, he would figure that out when it happened. Knowledge was power, or so it was said. And he had to learn where he was and what he could do before he could make any meaningful decisions.

He walked on, the impassive face staring ever forwards as the trees began to thin out. He rested each night, and resumed his march each day. Soon the forest was left behind, and he was marching through fields. He felt exposed, walking alone through such open spaces. To a soldier of the Korps, the only time they moved through such open ground was in great waves whenever they were storming enemy defences.

Still, at least his arrival would be heralded. Whoever was in charge would know where he was going, and meet him accordingly. There was the chance that he would be killed out of hand of course. But if that is what the Emperor willed, then so be it. But no challenge came. So he continued to walk. More days passed before he finally caught sight of a city, it's towering buildings clearly visible on the horizon.

* * *

"Can anyone care to explain why it took you the better part of two weeks to find a man, on foot, heading in one direction?" asked Fury, his displeasure all to evident. The assembled agents were silent, unable or unwilling to admit the embarrassing truth. Only the soft thrumming of the air conditioning could be heard in the meeting room.

"Because it was one man, on foot, heading in one direction," replied Hawkeye evenly. The Avenger was sat at the table, his gear currently resting on his back. He looked somewhat bored by the entire ordeal. Fury's one good eye focused on him, but he showed no signs of being uncomfortable by drawing the director's attention. "There's a reason I do it myself so often," he added, and Fury seemed to grow more annoyed.

He knew that Barton had a point. Lone operatives travelling on their own were a lot harder to track. That and SHIELD had assumed nothing, so had surveyed the entire region before reports started coming in on a figure matching the soldier's description heading for New York. That immediately raised alarm bells. With the soldier's allegiances still unknown, he had been deemed a threat and SHIELD would react accordingly. And any potential HYDRA activity was automatically classed as high priority. "Alright. Barton, you're up. Just try to bring him in alive."

"Understood."

* * *

_**A/N: I blame Lord-of-Change for this. Seriously I do. He wrote a fun little fic "Death Korps of Justice" and I just knew I had to take a shot at a similar idea _ Go check his story out, it's quite a pleasant read though it does have a tad of a rocky start. Then again, most crossovers do. This tale in itself is only pegged to last three chapters by current estimates. A nice short little thing to let me have some fun. **_

_**Anyways, hoped you enjoyed it. And if not, please do share why!** _


	2. Issue 02: Signal Failure

**Issue 02**

* * *

_Signal Failure_

* * *

The quinjet rumbled as it flew through the air. The helicarrier had been patrolling the west coast, so they'd had to grab one of the transports in order to intercept the soldier before he reached the city. But his actions were puzzling. Simple. Potentially single minded. That would make everything easier and harder, Barton thought, inspecting his arrowheads. Easier, since it meant they could probably dispense with pleasnatries, harder because he'd be so focused on his goal as to be able to pretty much ignore anything the Hawk could throw at him. Still, fill him with enough arrows and he'd go down. Besides, HYDRA tended not to have exactly spectacular supers. The powerful ones were far beyond their ability to control, even at the best of times. More likely they were facing another cheap Captain America knock off. Actually, considering the Captain, Barton frowned as he tried to figure out why Fury hadn't sent him. Captain had the most experience dealing with HYDRA out of anyone in SHIELD after all.

Plus, he was enough of a boy scout to reliably bring this man in alive. Barton wasn't exactly known for bringing his targets in alive. Now that he thought about it, that was probably why Fury had sent him in the end – he expected this guy to get hostile, and to have Hawkeye deal with it. He could live with that. He looked away from his gear and eyed the SHIELD troops that had been assigned as his support.

Patrol Team 3, aka the Rats were not exactly shining paragons of humanity. But neither was Barton, so he liked them just fine. There were seven of them in the quinjet with him. Enough support to deal with a lone operative. Or so they hoped. Everything seemed in their favour, but Hawkeye knew that there were always variables one couldn't account for. That was fine too. They were all adaptable.

* * *

The city was growing closer, and attention was growing. The vehicles would slow and people would stare, or shout, or jeer. He did not know their tongue, but he could tell from their voices. That and it was a reaction he was used to. The Death Korps were often seen as a reminder of the grim reality of war for the Imperium, and many associated the destruction conflict could wreak with their imposing uniforms. Not for them did cheering crowds line the streets, not for them were wreaths thrown by thankful women. Even when part of a larger parade, people would fall silent when they approached, waiting for them to move on before resuming their cheer.

They never reacted to such treatment though. If anyone in his regiment had harbored any thoughts relating to the matter, they had kept them to themselves. They were the Korps of Krieg, born to die in the Emperor's name. They were raised to be no more than cogs in the great machine that was the Imperial war effort, and none of them flinched from that duty. But they were still human. At night, in their barracks, some would weep for lost friends. Beneath their gas masks, they would smile at a well told joke. But they would never show emotion to others. They were the Death Korps. They were already dead. Others from Krieg understood that. But very rarely did they get to serve alongside other regiments from home. Other regiments rarely understood. They did not come from a world that had been turned into an atomic cinder in defiance of traitors. They did not understand the guilt all members of the Korps felt for permitting such a rebellion to form in the first place.

They did not understand the quiet acceptance of death all men and women from Krieg were taught since they were born. And so they would feel pity, or woe, or puzzlement at their behaviour. They just did not understand. But few held it against them. Some envied them. They had homes, they had families. Such things did not exist on Krieg except in legends of the past. All those born on Krieg knew only one home. Kreig itself.

He lowered his head as he marched, his legs throbbing with a dull ache. And then he heard something else, apart from the roars of passing vehicles, the calls of the planet's citizens. A familiar roar, one that he couldn't quite believe as he scanned the skies. Then he saw it, and his hope died. He had expected a valkarye, one of the most commonly used front-line gunships of the Imperium, but was instead revealed a far more bulky craft, with delta wings like the vehicles of the xenos.

It circled him, never turning away. A VTOL. Unsurprising. The techno-sorcery of the Tau could replicate some of mankind's technological innovations after all. He drew his lasgun, but kept his finger of the trigger and the barrel pointing towards the ground. He had wanted to draw some kind of attention to himself, to get to speak to some sort of authority. This certainly looked he was getting close. If they had wanted him dead, he was pretty sure they would have killed him, judging from...wait, was that an assault cannon? That was rare. The weapons were usually utilised only by the...adeptus...astartes...

Ah...this could be a craft of the Space Marines. Was he on a recruiting world? A chapter homeworld? That...would have been quite the blessing. The guard went where the Emperor willed, and rarely travelled to peaceful worlds, let alone those belonging to His Angels of Death. The craft seemed satisfied by it's inspection of him and turned away as it settled into the field. The winds generated by it's engines tugged at his coat tails as a ramp on the back lowered with a pneumatic groan and the passengers moved out.

They certainly weren't space marines. But they were armed and moved with practised ease. Planetary Defence Force troopers perhaps? That would make sense. The closes thing that many planet's had to permanent Guard garrison, the PDF were made up of whoever was left once the competent soldiers were tithed into the Guard regiments. They had a reputation for being relatively poorly armed, poorly led, and with the kind of discipline only an Ogryn could admire. But there were PDF's that could match even Guard regiments, and if these men were any indication, this planet could hold it's own in a war. At least before attrition set in.

One of them wasn't like the others. He was armed with a bow, and his fatigues were much less weighed down than those of the other soldiers. Normally he would have labelled the man as a scout, but by the way he got off the craft last made it appear as if he was in charge. He felt his muscles tense, his heart rate quickening. This could still develop into a fight. Best it did not. He stood in silence and waited for these people to do something. That would let him gauge their intentions.

One of the regular soldiers was aiming a rifle at him, something that looked like a severely stripped down autogun from his first glance, and said something. He blinked. The words had sounded somewhat...familiar. Like those of Krieg. The sounds were right at least. But the order was off, and they made no sense. Inside he frowned as he tilted his head to one side, facing the speaker whilst his eyes darted over the others. The speaker was a man who wore what appeared to be glasses, and he was tanned, like the soldiers of the Tallarn. His hair however was cut short in the style favoured by Cadians. He repeated his words again. As hard as he tried though, he couldn't understand them. He looked to the others before turning back to the man and speaking.

"I am sorry, but I do not understand you."

* * *

"Abe, you said you knew German," hissed Gabriel, his palms itching. No one was pointing their guns at each other yet, which was a good sign, but he knew it could only take a second for the stranger to take aim and fire. Hell, at this range he wouldn't even need to worry that much about aiming. Abraham at least had the sense to keep his weapon aimed in the man's general direction.

"I can!" hissed the other man out the corner of his mouth. "But what he's speaking ain't any kind of German I've ever heard of."

"Bullshit. You're just out of practice," retorted Gabriel with a slight smirk. Abraham actually looked at him in annoyance before glancing at the Hawk.

"He's right. It sounds the same but it isn't," the Avenger said, obviously curious. "Could be some form of language developed for internal use." Internal meaning between this guy and whoever else was with his organisation.

Abraham grimaced before speaking again, this time in Russian. Because why not, they may as well go through all their options before resorting to charades. "Lay down your arms and put your hands on your head."

Again, no reaction. Did he not understand, or was he baiting them?

* * *

He stood there, feeling somewhat foolish as the speaker continued to try communicating with him, moving through several languages. All of them sounded vaguely familiar, but frustratingly foreign. The rapid fire speech of the Tallarn. Then the nasal drawl of a Valhallan. Though no expert, he guessed that any natives of those worlds would have been as perplexed as he was to have been confronted by a language so similar to his beloved Kriegan. He waited until the man stopped speaking before interrupting.

"Do you understand this tongue?" he asked in Low Gothic. Now it was their turn to look surprised, glancing at one another and conferring in yet another language. By the grace of Him on Earth, why did they have so many languages?

* * *

"Ok, what about that one?" asked Abraham, glaring at Gabriel, who looked helplessly at Hawkeye. He could tell the man wanted nothing more than to rub his eyes in frustration. He was too much a professional to take his hands off his weapons though.

"Sounded alien to me. We got anything that could translate that?" suggested Patrick, trying to avoid smiling despite himself. They had deployed expecting a fire fight and instead were getting something akin to a first contact.

"Not on us," muttered Hawkeye. This was turning into a colossal waste of time. Maybe this guy was literally some idiot who had stumbled across some HYDRA cache and tried to be a hero. Maybe it had fried his brain. Who the hell knew when it came to HYDRA. He didn't appear hostile at least. Though he was holding his weapon with the ease of someone who was very familiar with it's workings. This guy was or had been military. It was evident in the way he held himself. The mask was a bit much though. It could not have been comfortable to wear, and certainly impaired his vision.

Barton automatically filed that little nugget of information away. Any advantage over an unknown foe was always welcome. Then the soldier said something that he recognised. Latin! Wait, Latin?! Why Latin? Only mottos used Latin any more. The hell was he trying a dead language? "Alright, I think we're getting somewhere. Any of you speak Latin?" There was an awkward silence as the agents looked at one another.

"Anyone?"

Silence.

"Great," sighed Hawkeye, letting his annoyance show. He raised a hand to his earpiece. "Control, this is Hawk."

"Control," replied the cool voice on the other end.

"We got anyone who speaks Latin?" he asked, straight to the point.

There was a pregnant pause on the other end. "Standby."

Hawkeye's face twitched.

* * *

They were getting somewhere at last. It had been frustrating, but at least their intentions were peaceful. They hadn't grown angry or annoyed. If anything, they seemed somewhat amused. He could understand that. Having such a plethora of languages and being unable to find one in common. Maybe this world had been Imperial once, before being isolated? That happened often enough. It would also explain the language similarities. There would have been quite the guard presence stranded on the planet if that was the case though. He had counted roughly seventeen different languages that they had tried to communicate with. His attempt at High Gothic however, seemed to have borne fruit.

He had seen the glimmer of recognition in the archer's eyes before holding a finger to his ear. He was wearing a vox-bead it seemed. Calling for a translator? Or for further orders? High Gothic was usually taught only to nobles, officers, clerks and priests. Maybe by speaking it he had revealed himself as any enemy? He doubted that. Their reaction would have been a lot less relieved. He tried again, this time trying to remember the words they had been taught back during training.

"I bid...greetings in name..of He of Earth," he said haltingly. He had never been good in High Gothic. Though all soldiers in the Korps were made passingly familiar in it, they weren't expected to fully learn it unless they reached a position of rank. Which he had, he realized with a grimace. He was the highest Death Korps soldier present. That made him...what? A colonel at least? He dismissed such thoughts and focused on the now, looking at the archer.

He could see the other soldiers were thinking hard. There was a point of contact, he knew it. One of them said something. He swung his head to look at him. The soldier, a young, fair skinned man started at having drawn his attention, but repeated himself.

Remember your mortality.

Was that a warning? A threat? Or a motto? His grip tightened on his weapon, but he nodded to signify he had understood.

* * *

He was nodding. Hell be damned. "Patrick, what did you say to him?" asked Gabriel, noticing the way the man seemed to tense up.

"Uhm...I don't know?" offered the British man. Gabriel gaped at him. "What? The only Latin I know is various mottos. I don't know what they MEAN."

"How did you ever make SHIELD agent?" groaned Abraham.

"Shut up. Patrick, list them all off. Maybe he'll realize what we're trying to do," Gabriel said, his gun wavering slightly. This could turn really ugly, really fast.

The youngest member of the team nodded, visibly nervous as he began speaking. "Uhm...Carpe diem. Acta non verba. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori," he quickly rattled off.

* * *

The man was babbling. Reciting words that had been spoken to him. But that meant there were people who could speak High Gothic on this world. He felt his spirit soar. It was the best news he could have hoped for in his situation. Inwardly he smiled and loosened his grip on his weapon, shouldering it in one easy movement. That startled the soldiers who instinctively raised their guns before realizing he had just effectively surrendered himself into their care. He nodded at the young one, who seemed quite relieved.

He couldn't blame him. The Death Korps were not meant to be liberators or exemplars of Imperial service. They were fodder soldiers. The reliable army that turned a war into nothing more than a calculation. How many men would be required to take that stretch of ground? How many would have to die before the foe ran out of ammunition? Whatever the answer, the Death Korps would provide.

The darker skinned one with the shaded glasses approached, holding out his hand and speaking. The words were slow and careful, as if dealing with a spooked mount. He suppressed the urge to snort as he tilted his head to one side whilst looking at the speaker. The man repeated himself and pointed at the lasgun on his shoulder. Ah. He wanted him to disarm. He chuckled silently to himself, shaking his head in the universal sign for 'Not on your life'. They didn't seem happy about that but seemed to understand. Their reaction would have been the same if their situation was reversed, he knew. The speaker looked at the archer who just nodded his head, and indicated the transport as he stepped to one side, his bow still drawn and the string taut.

He marched on in silence before taking a seat. Now he was getting somewhere. And then he felt something stab into his neck.

* * *

He awoke to a blinding bright light. Had the Emperor finally come down to greet him? Had he been granted forgiveness for his lapse in judgement? He blinked and the light began to focus. He could see...a ceiling. He was lying down. He sat up, swaying slightly. A...drug? He had been stabbed with a drug? Indignation filled him, though none showed on his face. His face...his face!

His hands flew up, feeling soft flesh beneath his fingertips. They had taken his face. His face barely twitched, though his hands curled into fists, the nails digging into his palm in rage. He was clad in his fatigues, but his coat was gone. As was his armour and his weapons. They had taken them from him. They had offered a hand in peace and struck a treacherous blow.

He had to hand it to these strange soldiers, they were good. But they had left him alive. Enemies should never be left alive. They were only good for being ground into dust, into nothingness. Dakr thoughts continued to run through his mind as he glared directly ahead, his face blank. Were they cultists? Was he meant to be a sacrifice? Or where they secessionists and sought to interrogate him?

He was angry. He had failed himself. He had been to trusting, too lost in thoughts of salvation to keep his wits about him. He took a shallow breath to calm himself, his hands relaxing. When in doubt, advance. He would continue on until the Emperor claimed him. Comfort filled him at the familiar thought. Nothing had changed. He would die for in the name of the Emperor. Nothing else mattered. So let them do their worse.

* * *

"He just sits there," said Patrick, leaning forward slightly, almost pressing his nose against the one way glass. "What do you think he's thinking about?"

"Probably how we betrayed his trust," shrugged Gabriel. He felt no remorse for what they had done. They were not going to take some armed stranger on board the helicarrier. Even the Captain had been kept unarmed when they unfroze him. Of course that hadn't exactly helped. "Anyway, what we got on his gear?"

"The laser gun is...well, nothing special," said Abraham, reading off a tablet. "Roughly on par with the kind of stuff we can get our hands on. Mass produced though. Lots of manufacturers marks which match nothing in our records," he added, glancing up at the man. He was a soldier, there was no denying that. That blank stare. He had seen it before, on soldiers who had served long enough to simply not care anymore. The true mark of a sociopath. "That little book he had on him was interesting though. It's slow going on the translation but the pictures clear things up." To an extent. None of the species displayed appeared in any SHIELD records. Then again SHIELD was hardly the Nova Corps. The galaxy was a large place after all, and they had enough problems with earthlings to have no desire seeking out new alien races. At least it didn't appear as if they were dealing with a HYDRA operative. Unless of course HYDRA had one into space during World War 2 and some colony was trying to re-establish contact. He didn't even want to think about that possibility.

"...anything else?" Garbiel prompted, keeping his gaze on their prisoner.

"Hmmm...no medical records or any matches to any databases, but then what else is new?" Abraham replied with a snort of disgust. Running a check to see if someone appeared on any official records had become a mere formality lately. "Let's see...medical findings. Various antibodies and immunity boosters, supposedly standard for any soldier being deployed onto alien worlds. Evidence of genetic tampering...supposed cloning."

Gabriel glanced at his friend. This just kept getting better and better. "So...he's part of a Clone Army?" he summarised, raising his hand to cut off Patrick before he spoke. "One Star Wars quote out of you and you're grounded for a week." Patrick snapped his mouth shut. Abraham shrugged in response before the door hissed open and Fury stepped in.

The trio came to attention and saluted the director, their military training making them act on instinct. Fury waved at them to relax as he took up position next to Gabriel, watching the soldier in silence. Abraham and Patrick shared a look and a shrug before focusing on the director. He seemed to be thinking.

"Uhm...sir?" ventured Gabriel, making Fury glance his way. For a moment it seemed like the man was tired. Gabriel blinked. No, still the same Nick Fury, with a will of iron. "We have a lead yet?"

"No," the director replied. "But we have enough to start talking at least. You three are his security detail until further notice, understood?" He waited for their nods of acknowledgement before continuing. "Good. I've got a talker coming in to try and pry some information off this guy."

"Aren't you going to handle the interrogation yourself?" asked Gabriel carefully.

Fury just shook his head. "I don't speak a word of damned Latin."

Gabriel blinked. Wait, Nick Fury DIDN'T know something?

* * *

She rolled down the corridor, eyes hidden behind mirrored shades. Personnel stood apart to let her pass as he headed down into the holding bay. Such a clean phrase. The woman couldn't quite hide the disgust she felt. The place radiated hostility, feelings of pain, outrage and fear that had long since soaked into the metal walls themselves. She hated it. Loathed it. But Fury had ordered her to perform the interrogation, and like a good little agent, she would.

The woman stopped before the door and shot it a black look before concentrating. _Someone mind opening the door for me?_ She heard an exclamation of surprise and some scuttling before the door was opened for her and she wheeled herself in.

"I hate it when they do that," muttered Gabriel, looking at her as she entered.

"Nice of you to join us Cassandra," greeted Fury without looking in her direction. Cassnadra Webb smiled politely back at the director of shield.

"So where is the subject?" she asked, her mind reaching out, sensing the presence of others. The familiar regimented thoughts of SHIELD agents surrounded her. Then there was the fortress wall that made up Fury's mind, and beyond that...beyond that there was a mind like glass. Smooth and featureless. She frowned. She never enjoyed dealing with those kinds. The one's who knew how to disassemble their surface thoughts. "Ah."

"Sure you want to go in there with him?" asked the youngest, Patrick. He felt genuine concern. Cute.

"What, don't think you can handle him?" she shot back, feeling him stumble for a retort as she continued to speak. "Well, let's get this over with."

Fury nodded, but didn't bother to face her as she left alongside the other SHIELD agents. He kept his gaze locked on the prisoner. Was he a potential friend, or a foe? Whom did he serve? Where was he from?

* * *

The door opened, and his gaze flickered to it briefly before resuming his cold glare at the opposite wall. The three soldiers entered, followed by a woman in a wheelchair. He felt his teeth clench. He just knew what she was. It was obvious from her frail frame and the slight disquiet that emanated from her companions. Psyker. So they were just going to tear the information from his head. How simple. Only to be expected from those who were ignorant of the Emperor's light.

The woman tilted her head as she looked in his direction before speaking in fluent High Gothic. "What is your name?"

* * *

**_A/N: This is why I regularly don't do crossovers. They ALL start the same way. It's like an obligation you need to get out of the way first before really fun stuff can start happening!_ _And for those of you expecting a fight this chapter, sorry. It would have ended very badly for the Krieger. Exaclty WHY will be explained next chapter. For those of you wanting more, I have one storyarc in mind that I could do after this Origin Series, one that I've toyed with a lot in the past but never really committed to. Mostly because I fear for my ability to draw it to a conclusion. _**

**_But anyway, thanks for the reviews, favs, and follows guys and girls!  
_**

**_Existential Insanity - Did this suffice? _**


	3. Issue 03: The Man With No Name

**Issue 03**

* * *

_The Man with No Name_

* * *

They wanted his name. He chose not to give it to them. The woman was looking in his direction, as if expecting an answer. Then she nodded to herself before speaking again.

"Who are you?" she asked in High Gothic, though her accent was thick he could sense the meaning behind her words. He kept his face a stoic mask. He was a member of the Imperial Guard, humanity's hammer to be wielded against the traitor, the mutant, and the heretic. He was a member of the Death Korps, who knew duty beyond the point of death. He kept his gaze fixed at a point on the opposite wall.

The room was small, spartan. He would have even liked it, in another time. His visitors kept cool level gazes on him, waiting for him to provoke them. But he was no fool. Though he had no fear of death, no one who died in vain died in His name. Besides, the Emperor had seen fit to send him here. Obviously there was a reason behind that. Exactly what it was eluded him, but he knew there was something more at work.

The psyker's hand began drumming out a steady beat on the arm rest of her wheelchair. "Why are you here?"

A good question that only He on Terra could answer. So the soldier remained silent as the moment went on.

"How did you get here?" Another question that he himself would have liked the answer to. It was amusing...even if he had wanted to talk, he still would have been unable to answer them. Another couple of minutes passed before the woman sighed and wheeled herself out, followed by the soldiers. He caught the look of slight confusion between them as they left.

He closed his eyes and began to mentally recite one of the prayers he had learned at Home.

* * *

Two days passed. She would go in and ask him the same questions, trying to focus his mind. They didn't know. Mind reading was not one of her abilities. Not really. Telepathy was merely the exchange of active thoughts, and not deep memories. She could only peer into the surface of his mind whenever she triggered memories, and those were vague at the best of times. With this soldier...well, it was proving frustrating. His mind was disciplined and devoid of any errant thinking.

Cassandra Webb was reminded of her first impression of the man's mind – ice. Smooth, flawless, but with hidden depths. Depths she could just make out whenever her questions made him automatically think of a response, even if he didn't voice it. A string of numbers to denote a name...dark tunnels beneath radioactive wastes...a two headed eagle.

The images were vague, but through repeated questioning she was beginning to put together a map of the man's mind, beginning to draw links between the memories and the emblems ingrained into his psyche. She also was able to detect when her words did not match his knowledge of the language he spoke, and had started to adjust her speech to compensate.

She had a rough outline of the man's psyche profile, but there were still infuriating gaps she was determined to figure out. She would never admit it openly, but she was beginning to enjoy this. He was certainly more interesting than the regulars she had to deal with. The Rats for one were horrendously noisy thinkers, audible to her even when she wasn't focusing on them. The eagerness of Patrick to impress, the exasperation of Gabriel, and the annoyance of Abraham had become constant companions over the past week. She sighed and rubbed her temple as she sat in her wheelchair, wishing this meeting would just end already. Since the soldier's incarceration, his case had been bumped down since it was evident there was no HYDRA connection, although Natsumi's team were still scouring the area to make certain. Fury was off doing whatever it was that the director of SHIELD did, so she now had to report to Agent 7.

Agent 7 was one of those SHIELD agents who were not only talented, but damn lucky to boot. She had done several tours of duty with the US Marines, and hadn't even suffered a scratch despite being thrown into the front-lines more than once. She'd even served alongside SHIELD forces before being recruited. Her face betrayed nothing as she listened to the various reports being given in the meeting, though Cassandra knew that she was committing all the important details to memory and prioritizing each case. And then it was Webb's turn to speak.

She cleared her throat. "Subject: SOLDIER remains uncooperative, though interrogation has yielded further clues regarding missing information." Agent 7 tilted her head, a strand of her red hair falling into her face which she absent mindedly brushed aside as she nodded for Cassandra to continue. "Subject is undoubtedly the result of some sort of military project, having not only been cloned but raised in a militant manner from a young age. He was part of an army specializing in attritional warfare, particularly sieges. Details are impossible to gain without subject's cooperation, but seems like the purpose of this military was to protect and oppress humanity. Key opposing forces noted from subject's mind as well as the instructional literature found on his person: traitors to the faith, unsanctioned mutants, and aliens. Deeply ingrained xenophobia though without personal experiences to direct it," she added, folding her arms across her chest. There was more of course, but without further details, it was impossible to puzzle out.

Sanctioned mutants clad in plate, muttering vows of fealty. Machines the size of skyscrapers marching across the landscape. Rains of blood and pus. Death, duty, honor. It was sheer madness. And that tome he had carried had not helped things either. Thanks to her interactions with the soldier, Cassandra had been able to speed up the translation process, the book turning out to be some sort of military handbook detailing various aliens and the weapons his army used. But from skimming his thoughts when questioning the soldier about it, even the soldiers that were issued it knew it was largely full of propaganda. What she had seen through the ice of his thoughts had not matched up to what the book had claimed. Disinformation and deception on a truly staggeringly scale. Ignorance championed and progress feared. They were lucky the man wasn't frothing at the mouth like some fanatic and screaming obscenities at them.

Agent 7 nodded to signify understanding her report, and the meeting came to an end. Cassandra was already wheeling herself towards the door when Agent 7's voice stopped her. "Agent Webb. A word please." Suppressing a sigh, the head of SHIELD's Psi Division obediently waited by the door as the others left, leaving her alone with the redhead. "This soldier is taking up a lot of our time and resources. I want this matter resolved."

"What, do you want us to just kill him and dump his body in the ocean?"

Agent 7 made a face that conveyed the fact she found such an idea personally repulsive. "No. I'd rather not give his fellows any reason to declare war on us if they come looking for him," she explained. "But...could we at least find some way to make him no longer need to be observed? We are stretched thin as is."

"The man is an indoctrinated killing machine. He has no concept of civilian life, or even any other way of life. Anything resembling identity has been burnt away leaving a drive to perform his duty," Webb explained with a shake of her head.

The senior agent leaned forwards, resting her elbows on the table as she steepled her hands in front of her. "Right, so just letting him loose with a warning wouldn't do. And throwing him into permanent lockup is pointless since he hasn't done anything warranting such." Though keeping him locked up to prevent potential trouble was perfectly within their rights. "Suggestions?"

Cassnadra was quiet for a while before venturing a suggestion. "What about recruitment? Take him in, make him one of us. He will cause trouble wherever he goes, we may as well be able to influence where and when he causes it."

Agent 7 raised an eyebrow. "Is he some sort of Rambo then?"

"Not at all. But give him a task and he will do it," Webb shrugged. She could see Agent 7 considering the issue, the gears of her mind turning. "We could try to convince him by appealing to his mandate," she offered.

"The protection of humanity? I can see that. But his xenophobia may prove...troublesome," the redhead pointed out, leaning back in her chair. "Besides, he hasn't even spoken to you yet. How will you get around that?"

"Oh, we can think of something," replied Webb.

Agent 7 sighed as she stood up, but nodded. "Very well then. Try to get him to consider working for SHIELD. We can always use more experienced soldiers," she said, walking around the table to the door.

"Understood," replied Cassandra.

* * *

"So...shock therapy?" frowned Gabriel, looking at the spook. Cassandra nodded her head. "Are we just going for getting any sort of reaction from him?" the man ventured, making Cassandra nod again. "Well...I suppose that'll work. What did you have in mind?" Cassandra turned to face him, even though he knew she couldn't see him.

"You'll see. Now shut up and watch."

Gabriel shut up and resumed watching their guest, who they had resorted to calling Silent Bob, in his room. It felt somewhat wrong to just be watching him like this through a one way mirror. The man spent most of his time sitting on the bed. He would eat and relieve himself when necessary, but other than that, nothing. Not even a single complaint regarding boredom. The door to the room opened, and Patrick and Abraham entered, followed by a third figure.

Gabriel's jaw dropped as Jennifer Walters walked in, dressed in a smart shirt, blazer and pencil skirt as if heading for the courtroom, and not an interrogation cell. He was too busy staring to notice the soldier's eyes flicker towards the new arrival. He was too busy staring to notice how the soldier twitched at noticing the green-skinned amazon.

* * *

The woman placed a device on the table they had brought in one day to ostensibly make him more comfortable. They hadn't resorted to torture, so that was promising. They didn't want to alienate him too much. She sat down in the chair, though it was a size or two too small for her. It was curious to note that this world also had abhumans, though the female matched none of the variants he was aware of. The green skin and the muscles made him think of the orks, and he supposed that the woman must have possessed prodigious strength. However she clearly wasn't an ork. The proportions were wrong for one. The lack of tusks was further proof. And thirdly, she was clearly female.

She was speaking that language of theirs, somewhat similar to the native tongue of the Praetorians. At the same time, the machine was translating it into High Gothic. Or as close to High Gothic as these people could get. "Hello, my name is Walters and I have been assigned as your defender."

Defender? What?

"Though SHIELD has a right to hold you, they cannot do so indefinitely. Therefore I have been appointed as your adviser for resolving the legal issues associated with your potential release."

SHIELD? Release? What? He actually turned his head to look at her to show he was listening. The woman seemed to notice the movement and smiled. She seemed to be a representative of a legal system of some sort. Interesting. They clung to morality and ethics. Suddenly his situation didn't seem so grim anymore.

"Your release has been postponed primarily through your refusal to cooperate with SHIELD's questioning. Though understandable, we would at least wish some matters cleared up," the woman stated, laying out a folder with various papers. "We do not know who you are, where you come from, why, or what your purpose is. As I'm sure you'll agree, ignorance of such things can be dangerous."

Well, he had to agree to that, but still he made no movement.

The woman...Walters as she had called herself, tapped a finger against her cheek as if it were a metronome, clearly considering something. "SHIELD wants reassurance you are not a threat to Earth. As soon as you can guarantee that, we can try to help you get home."

"Earth?"

* * *

She blinked as the two soldiers started. The man had spoken out loud. At last. Jennifer smiled and nodded. Strange. She had been briefed that the man was some raging xenophobe, but he seemed...almost accepting? No...not even that. It was as if she was nothing special. That was certainly a novel experience for the woman most called She-Hulk. "Yes, this planet is called Earth," she said, though inside she felt like groaning. SHIELD had told this man nothing. How was she meant to successfully judge his case if he had no idea of what was going on?

He was quiet, though obviously thinking. He seemed to reach some sort of conclusion before curtly nodding. That prompted a question from her. "Have you heard of it before?"

"All Imperial citizens know of Holy Earth," the man replied. Jennifer Walters stared in surprise. Holy Earth? She was going to ask for further details before the man elaborated. "The seat of the God Emperor of Humanity. A planet of pilgrims and warriors tasked with defending the Golden Throne," he added. He seemed to have accepted that no one here was a threat to him, and was beginning to reveal more.

"God Emperor...is that who you serve?" she asked cautiously. Earth being this great holy place could make sense, if his people were stranded on the far side of the galaxy. Maybe some aliens had abducted their ancestors years ago? A fanciful theory but then again, considering what SHIELD had had to deal with in the past...

"Yes, as I'm sure do you, in your own way," he stated. She had no idea how to respond to that, so fell on the practiced response of non-committal acceptance. A polite smile would do before switching the topic.

"Well this isn't your Earth, so what are your intentions knowing that?"

* * *

He was quiet as he considered the woman's question. This wasn't Holy Terra. It was a poor world, lost and adrift, isolated from the greater Imperium. But it remembered. He was sure. They had named their world in honor of the lost sacred planet. He was sure he would find a version of the Imperial Cult too if he looked hard enough. Clearly this world had been Imperial once, if the wide range of recognizable languages was anything to go by.

The Emperor had sent him here to remind the people here of Him. He on Earth watched over all humanity, and had sent a member of the Imperial Guard to watch over the world. The Guard were the defenders of humanity. He was needed here, and the Emperor had seen fit to deliver him. His purpose was set, his course clear. Had he been anything but a Korpsman of Krieg, he would have smiled. Instead he just slightly nodded his head. "I will continue to serve. I will protect humanity against the traitor, the heretic, and the xeno," he stated simply, taking comfort from the familiar pledge.

The green woman seemed to consider his words before speaking. "I see. In that case, SHIELD is willing to offer you a deal. You work with them, and they will provide for you whilst you are here," she said. That seemed reasonable. They would give him a home and a way to live until he could figure out exactly what the Emperor wanted him to do here. Was the primary threat xeno or traitor? Heresy seemed likely as well, now he thought about it.

"As long as they do not oppose the will of the Emperor, I shall be their guide to the way of the Imperium," he replied. Bold words, and ones he felt uncomfortable uttering. He was not priest, given to oratory and zeal. He could not convert the people here to the Cult of the Emperor. Perhaps he would just have to protect the planet until the forces of Him on Earth rediscovered it? He almost smiled. Oh yes, he could do that.

Walters nodded. "I'm sure we can work out the fine details in due course, but thank you for your cooperation. I must say, I expected a much more hostile reaction..." she ventured, making the Korpsman glance her way briefly, prompting her to explain. "I mean...I don't exactly look human..."

"Genetic variation amongst humanity does exist though it is rare. As long as the genome is stable, they are recognized as Imperial subjects. It is those who have been twisted by Chaos that are our foes," he answered flatly, facing the wall again, his mind churning through various scenarios. His answer seemed to have surprised the woman.

"So...as long as there is more than one member of a subgroup of humanity, their mutation is deemed stable and acceptable?"

He did not answer her. He had already explained things. He wouldn't waste his time repeating himself. She stared at him intently for about a minute before sighing and writing something down on the papers she had pulled out of a folder. "Well in any case, I will need to know your name to fill these out. As a solider on our planet, you are entitled to have to answer only three questions. Your name, your rank, and a number assigned to you by your military." Granted, she probably could have mentioned that first, but it had been her last ace up her sleeve to get him to cooperate. "It would be a show of goodwill if we could know at least that."

The soldier continued to stare at the wall, seeming to consider her words before replying. "Korpsman 704b #3691," he replied with a tone of finality. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Things were developing. He had to be ready. Jennifer Walters looked at him as if expecting more before accepting he wasn't going to speak further. She collected the papers and slid them into her file, sparing him one last look before standing up and leaving.

* * *

"So…he has no name?" asked Agent 7 with a frown.

Cassnadra's fingers tapped out a near silent beat on the armrest of her wheelchair. She hated the meeting room. So clean, so sterile. It was like a lobotomized mind. Or like the soldier's mind. Seated next to her, facing the redheaded SHIELD agent was Jennifer. The sometimes Avenger and oftentimes lawyer was reading the various papers laid out on the table. Papers Agent 7 only casually glanced at.

"Not as such. As I said, he was cloned. Then raised to be a soldier in an army that reduced warfare to a calculation. They didn't need names, these…Corpsemen," Webb said, shaking her head in exasperation. Pencil pushers. Always loving to go over things they had already discussed.

Jennifer nodded her agreement. "But he seems to feel some sort of duty towards this planet, even if only because it shares a name with something from his own experience," she pointed out, checking the paperwork in front of her. "Legally of course, he doesn't exist as far as the world is concerned. I can't actually represent him or acknowledge his existence, especially since his origin is unknown. If we knew where he came from at least, I would be able to look into any precedents. But as it stands, it's probably best to give him an identity and begin acclimatising him to a far more peaceful life than the one he had before."

Webb turned her head as if to look at the lawyer with her blind eyes. "So you want to undermine him?"

"No. I want him to be able to cope in our society. That way, we will have a good liaison if more of his kind appears," the green-skinned woman pointed out, Agent 7 nodding along to her words. "However, I do recommend he remains under SHIELD's jurisdiction."

"Agreed," Agent 7 said before Webb could respond. "He could prove troublesome if permitted to roam freely," she added, grabbing one of the paper forms on the table, pausing only long enough to check it was the correct one before signing. "We'll have him moved and a security detailed assigned…as well as a teacher. I trust you can handle the legal side of things, Miss Walters?"

She-Hulk nodded whilst Webb sighed.

* * *

"You're out," the young man said in broken High Gothic. He turned his head and looked at the young soldier, standing by the open door. He tilted his head to one side slightly, prompting the youngling to speak again. "We're move you out. You free."

That made little sense. But he still stood up and nodded. "My gear?" he asked, keeping his hands by his sides, presenting no threat.

"To be returned to you," the other male said, indicating he should go first. The soldier stepped past. The other two men, the…Shieldmen, stood waiting for him. They were armed. He silently approved. Even when their prisoner, and with no real means of eliminating them, they were taking no chances. They turned away and began heading down the hallway. He followed, the young one a step behind him. It was his first time outside of the cell, and his eyes kept glancing about, taking in all the details he could catch.

Bare walls and floors, utilitarian. No shrines or iconography. It reminded him of his ponderings regarding these strangers' technology. How did it function? Did they have techpriests? Or did they practice technosorcery? Such questions were beyond his mandate, so he remained silent as they walked. Soon, they began encountering other people, dressed similarly to the soldiers, bearing the emblem, that of an eagle with its wings furled. They cast strange looks his way as he passed, but maintained their composure and did not let him distract him from their assigned duties.

Discipline was good amongst these Shieldmen. He pondered what it would be like to face their forces in the battlefield. Would they be like the Cadians, combining various tactics and responding to any development with flexibility? Or would they be like the Tallarn, hitting hard and fast and refusing to fight on the enemy's terms? Or would they use tactics similar to those of the Praetorians or Mordians? Of neat and organized firing lines?

Doors opened and closed as they continued to walk, until they found themselves in what he assumed to be an armory. Locked lockers and cages surrounded them, holding various devices and weapons he couldn't even begin trying to identify. A detached part of his mind felt amusement. They were trying to intimidate him, to show him their resources. They were also showing him how secure they were, that even if he tried to escape he would remain without equipment until they wished for him to have some.

An utter waste of time. The two soldiers in front of him paused, the bearded one talking to a young man who seemed somewhat excitable, going by the way he was smiling and babbling in their strange language. He seemed to notice him and pushed his way forwards, extending a hand as if for a handshake. The Korpsman just eyed the offered hand before looking back to the man's face without changing his expression. The technician shrugged as he dropped his hand, chattering again to the soldiers as he went over to one of the lockers.

"He like your gear. Make own type," explained the youngest soldier from behind him. That nearly made him raise an eyebrow as the technician pulled out his clothing and equipment from the locker, setting it down on the desk. He looked at the two soldiers flanking him. One nodded and waved at the gear on the table.

That was all the encouragement he needed, striding up and taking his coat off the table, slipping it on and swiftly buttoning up, glad to be back in his uniform. Next came his face, with the breathing apparatus going on first, hanging off his shoulders. He double checked the seals on the tubing before donning the blank face of the Death Korps, breaking into a smile as it settled on his head. Finally he picked up the helmet and donned it, taking a deep breath of the familiar recycled air.

The young soldier and technician exchanged a few words and a laugh, before the young civilian pulled out the lasgun and offered it to him. He took it and nodded stiffly, the only thanks he would offer. They hadn't toyed with the machine, he could tell, but it had been used and examined. He would have to strip it and appease the machine spirit before using the weapon again.

"Trust you. Expect no trouble," the young soldier said. "Have home. Language teach."

Turned to face him and nodded. This was their planet, and he was an emissary of the Imperium. It would only be right to learn their language, all to better learn what he would have to do here. The Emperor had delivered him to where he was needed, and he would do what had to be done to find out exactly why he was needed.

"Name Patrick," said the young one whilst slapping his forehead, as if suddenly realizing something. "You?"

His eyes narrowed behind the gas mask. Did they not already know? Did the abhuman not tell them? Maybe she was part of a different branch? Even in the Imperium there were communication issues after all.

"Korpsman 704b #3691," he said after a moment.

* * *

The translators SHIELD had managed to slap together were seriously unsuited for this, but Patrick had been forced to improvise. They needed some way of communicating after all. Webb had provided enough information to Smithers to let the eager young quartermaster make the necessary additions to the standard unit to let them communicate with their guest. But teaching him English was definitively going to be their top priority.

As far as assignments went, it wasn't that bad. Glorified babysitting duty, but then again the Rats were due for some downtime. This killed two birds with one stone. But the damned man kept saying alien words and numbers, and it wasn't helping at all. Patrick raised a finger to his ear and spoke again, making sure he heard the soldier right.

"What?"

The Darth Vader wannabe tilted his head to one side before speaking again. "Soldier of Dead Unit, Corpseman 704b #3691," he said, with his infuriatingly vague accent. Right, Agent Webb had mentioned something about a military formation dedicated to martyrdom. No, that wasn't it…a formation uncaring of death. Yes, that was it. Patrick nodded. So obviously such soldiers wouldn't have names. They had no need for them. "Seven Four B?" he said out loud, turning to face Gabriel, Abraham too busy having to listen to Smithers gush over his latest creation based off the soldier's gear. Gabriel shrugged, prompting Patrick to turn to Smithers.

"- and usually, only guys like HYDRA have this kinda kit. I gotta say, it was fun to work on something a bit darker than my usual fare," the quartermaster was saying, flipping through his sketchbook. "And, well, with his training and status, he would be qualified for some custom gear once he joined up. What do you think about night-vision?"

"Smithers!" snapped Abraham, his patience running thin. "I don't care!"

The young quartermaster didn't let the outburst faze him, twirling a pencil in his hands as he looked from the dressed up soldier to his sketchpad, noting down details. "So what you gonna do with him?"

"House arrest until he can communicate with us locals and we can get some sort of guarantee that he won't go causing trouble. After that, an invitation to SHIELD," Gabriel supplied as Abraham rolled his eyes.

"Perfect! I'll get to making his stuff as soon as possible! He got a cool name too?"

"Actually…wait, actually, good point. Patrick, what is his name?" Gabriel asked, turning to face him.

Patrick nodded. "Corpseman Seven-O-Four-B," he recited.

Smithers eyes seemed to sparkle. "Corpseman? That's pretty nice! I'm gonna go file it!" he declared, scurrying to behind his desk, his hands dancing over his console as he immediately typed out the necessary forms. The silent soldier just stood there, probably ignoring what was going on. Patrick couldn't blame him. Smithers was…off…at the best of times. The man was a gadget genius though, and far from the most eccentric of SHIELD's staff.

"Well, Corpseman is a good code name, but he's going to need an actual name," pointed out Gabriel. Patrick shrugged in response.

"Slevin Forbee?" suggested Abrham drily. "Or maybe Sevano Forb?"

"Are you serious?" asked Gabriel.

"Of course not."

* * *

_**A/N: Writing this fic is making me realize some things. Even if you aren't running through one established story arc, there are still Stations Of Canon you end up adhering to. Check out TVTropes for a full explanation, but from reading crossovers, I've noticed a certain structure that they all share, and one that I have ended up using as well. **_

_**Ah well. Guess we can make a drinking game of this huh? Take a shot every time I use a trope! Can you name 'em all? **_

_**Speaking of names, and ideas? I'm probably going to have our Corspeman pick a name out for himself to use as his civilian identity. Hah...civilian Death Korps...right...in any case seems like my prediction was wrong, so one more chapter to wrap up the intro arc, dealing with the Corpseman's acclimatising to the world and his first few missions alongside the Rats. **_

_**After that...well I have an idea that I may run with...but then again it may alienate you all...eh, we'll burn that bridge when we come to it! **_

_**Cegorach - True. A sacrifice for the sake of story pace on my part. **_

_**Amir-015 - This chapter should answer your question! **_

_**Cain O'Phelan - Smart? Hmmm...I tend to focus more on fun...**_

_**FractiousDay - That...won't be happening _ **_

_**Guests - Specifically, it's the NOBLE tongue gone through that. Low Gothic is exactly what you described though. I imagine Latin would actually survive. And let's face it, they got Shakespeare in the 30th Millenium...oh and here's an update. **_

_**AncientRaig - That's one of those things that depends on the author. Lasguns can run out of ammo. You can recharge them yes, but that's kinda pointless when you only have three charge apcks on you and no reliable way to recharge them. Yes, you can do the open fire bit, but that makes the packs liable to explode. They are also not solar panels. They are simply batteries you can hook into anything with a pair of wires. His mental defenses are literally his upbringing. I am running the version of thought reading that plays with surface thoughts, a la Caiphas Cain novels. **_

_**Blinded in a bolthole - Two? I had one in mind really. The picture of the flower girl at the parade. Also, I have not read the BL Death Korp novel yet, so I have no idea if I'm being canon or not. If not, we'll put it down to a regimental quirk. If yes, then yay, great minds think alike ^_^** _

**_Thanks to everyone else who reviewed and commented! _**

_**Next time, we catch up to our Krieger after a month of living under house arrest outside a major Hive of Nord Merica!** _


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